Something red. Something lustful. Something violent. Above all, permanent. A conscious stain.

Screams without blood.

Chatter without wind up teeth.

As the limbs recede back to the fetal position, I become aware that they are too cold and limp to perform such tasks. They should be discarded. Attached as they are, it might be difficult.

But I'll find a way. Don't I always?

Hair falls carelessly into my eyes and it's something like red. It belongs to me. Maybe I did it to be just...a little more like Matt. Matt is short for Matthew, obviously, whose Swedish form is Mattais, quite beautiful "if you know old Swedish,"; and in the end it all means something like the coming of God. This is the same as the meaning my discarded label (laminate?) held. It's almost a punchline when you think that my father's name was Christopher, which I assume is some default of Christ, correct? Great joke, right? Of course, "daddy" stopped being "daddy" when he fused what was left of his body to his motorcycle and the road after colliding with a gas truck.

Even better punchline!

Who is the son of Abraham, anyway?

Spinning restlessly in their sockets, my eyes search endlessly, and find nothing to suit their purpose. This shell has outlived its usefulness, and my wanton ambitions are being hampered by its infant limitations.

It's time to discard it as I did that dreadful moniker. (laminate.)

Alas, blood will be necessary after all, but it is worth the crime. The stain will be well crafted.

Mugu mugu?

Destroy Once Done